


What Beauty There Is To Be Found In Bliss

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:05:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on round 2 of the kink meme. Focus on Grantaire being ugly, Enjolras being particularly beautiful, and good fellatio. Thick prose, set in the canon era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Beauty There Is To Be Found In Bliss

Grantaire was ugly. Enjolras has known since he had met Grantaire that was truly ugly, had heard the story of Irma Boissey taking one look upon that unlucky countenance and declaring that Grantaire was impossible - and yet, soon after, he had also heard the tale of how Grantaire had taken the woman to bed despite her proclamation, and how Irma and Grantaire treated each other with obvious affection, fondness, that still was not love.

Enjolras had examined Grantaire, analyzed him, in many a moment of silence, of quiet, at their little meetings in the draughty backroom of the Musain, when Grantaire was distracted into raucous laughter by Bossuet and Joly, or when he argued fervently with Courfeyrac. 

Grantaire's skin was uneven, marked with scars that could have been from anything, but Enjolras suspected some of it was from barfights (and yet Bahorel's countenance was not similarly affected) and the rest from sharp grazes upon hitting uneven ground without his hands to catch him. Enjolras did not like to think of Grantaire so intoxicated that when thrown from an establishment he would crumple to the floor, so slow that his cheeks and chin would be viciously bitten by uneven brick as he dropped, but it was a reality, uncomfortable though it was.

Moreover, his eyes were just slightly unevenly sized, sunken in their places and emphasised by the dark shadows of little sleep; his lips were pink but chapped and sober (Enjolras did not like to think of how many kisses had been bestowed upon that ugly mouth, and yet it was a reality, that Grantaire was an ugly man and yet a seducer); his teeth were uneven and yellowed from tobacco and drink.

And yet, there was a charm to Grantaire. Enjolras was a charming man, but he was charming in a dozen ways, ways that could be used to turn the heads of the bourgeois, ways that could take all attention from a crowd, ways of convincing, of arguing, of inciting rebellion. Grantaire had his one charm, and it was indescribable.

When Grantaire spoke, the room was captivated, and yet he was not remarkably eloquent nor particularly passionate. He spoke with a languid tendency, as if nothing he said held its own weight (and indeed, Grantaire had been known to, as Courfeyrac would delightfully phrase it,  _talk some shit_ ), and yet he remained bewitching.

Grantaire was the ugliest of all the amis, by far, by complete certainty, and yet if you were to allow the lot of them to settle in a tavern, Grantaire would be the first to charm a young grisette or a sweet, boyish man into his lap. 

Enjolras did not understand it, and Enjolras abhorred to allow things to go by without his understanding them. There was such a strangeness to Grantaire's physiognomy, something that repelled all man and yet captivated them.

"Perhaps he is a demon." Courfeyrac said one night, in the middle of a serious conversation with Combeferre and Enjolras, as he looked upon Grantaire, distracted by that lonesome figure across the room. "Perhaps he is a Fallen angel among us mere men."

"Perhaps." Combeferre had said, and he turned as well, to consider the drunkard as he took his sup from the bottle. "Perhaps he is merely an ugly man."

"You have no heart for poetry." Courfeyrac had said, and Combeferre had shrugged.

"Perhaps that is so. My only poetry is for you, my friend." Combeferre had added, in such a tone that Enjolras had left them to privately murmur odd nothings to each other, the doctor's lips quirking as Courfeyrac broke a wide grin. It was not such a strange thing for them to be so together, nor was it discomforting - Enjolras could not claim an ignorance of or separation from such proclivities.

He merely gave them their privacy when he felt they deserved it. 

Tonight, they had taken their privacy into their own hands. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had gone home together to Courfeyrac's small apartment. Feuilly had allowed Bahorel and Prouvaire to convince him into leaving to go onto another establishment, and Joly and Bossuet had long since been convinced by thoughts of Musichetta to return home.

It was only him and Grantaire remaining in the backroom of the Musain now, the room lit only by barely surviving, flickering candles. Enjolras moved purposefully about the room, retaking plans and maps and folding them before piling them neatly atop each other; Grantaire sat in the corner of the room, and he drank. Enjolras put the chairs atop the tables, their seats facing downwards and their legs in the air; Grantaire drank. Enjolras took the brush Louis had left at his command, and he swept the floors as he always did, brushing away cigarette ash, dust, hairs, pieces of fabric, and everything else; Grantaire drank.

Grantaire was the only man of the amis to know that Enjolras performed this exercise in the aftermath of every meeting. It was not that Enjolras considered the work undignified, or that he felt embarrassed by it, but merely that he didn't want the others to try and assist him. The simple, manual work was calming to him after a long night of debate, even when Enjolras was not strictly a manual man in most contexts.

"You should relax, o fine leader." Grantaire said, and here again, he spoke lazily, as a spider who has caught his fly - no. A fly who has been caught, and cares little. "Allow that tension to melt from your bones and your muscles, and  _settle_  a time. Fined some grisette, drink, laugh, be merrier than now. The bliss will serve you."

"What worth is there to be found in bliss?" Enjolras asked in a long-suffering tone, setting the brush aside and regarding the brunet with crossed arms. He enjoyed these interactions, although he would never admit to it. This was when the political talk was over, and when they talked philosophy only in the vaguest of senses, and when Grantaire did not yell, or attempt to incense Enjolras to fury, or make worthless jibes.

This was Grantaire in a more honest form.

"Worth? Who said anything of worth? Pah!" Grantaire made a sweeping motion with one hand, his other firmly clasping the neck of a green, glass bottle. "No. What  _beauty_  there is to be found in bliss, Enjolras."

"What worth is in beauty?"

"You concern yourself with the immaterial!" Grantaire scolded, and he stood, setting the bottle aside and dancing across the room with all the grace of a man on stage at the opera, despite his drunken state. Enjolras had once been perplexed by such fine grace to be found in so beastly a man, but Combeferre had reminded him that Grantaire was not merely a painter, but a fine boxer and a finer fencer. It was easy to forget that Grantaire was as cultured a man as any of them, for Enjolras, at least. "No, my fine man, the best of God's glories, the best of His art, is to be found in beauty. You needn't be so utilitarian."

"Needn't I?" Enjolras asked dryly, dropping into the chair that remained without its table, barring of course, the one Grantaire had just vacated. 

"Indeed, you need not." Grantaire slipped forwards, closer, and Enjolras came to the awareness that he and the brunet had never been so close. "It is an irony, a sweet irony - a show, perhaps, of our Lord's good humour, that you, who are so charming in your looks, would have no knowledge of beauty's value."

"I know of-"

"You do not." Grantaire cut him off with desperate, clumsy movements of his hands, shaking his head vehemently. "Not truly. Oh, to look at you. Do you have any idea how  _fine_  a man you are, outside of how useful your pretty face is for charming men and women alike to your ridiculous cause?"

"I-"

"Indeed, no." Grantaire said, and then there was a weight in Enjolras' lap, the warm, heavy weight of Grantaire straddling his thighs, and when Enjolras inhaled he smelt oil paints and vanilla and canvas beneath the scent of liquor. And Grantaire was smiling, and the smile was so intolerably sad that it somehow made his face even less appealing. "You are beguiling, Enjolras."

"You are bold." Enjolras whispered. "To be in my lap like this, Louis could interrupt us-"

"Louis has long since bedded herself, as have the other staff." Grantaire murmured back, tone deliberate. "Is that your only protestation?"

"It is." Enjolras kept to his whisper, and something inconceivably miniscule changed in Grantaire's face, something that was a reaction and yet, not a quantifiable one. Enjolras did not know what he was doing. He had never taken a woman nor a man, and although he had heard Combeferre and Courfeyrac's advice about Grantaire's attraction to him, Enjolras had never considered it... Like this.

He did not know why he permitted it. And yet he did, and Grantaire was on top of him, and it was... not unpleasant.

"Then I shall continue. You are captivating." And Grantaire's thumb, calloused and scarred, ran over Enjolras' cheek. "You are a beauty among mere men, Enjolras, a verifiable God. You have the honour of Apollo, the furious passion of Ares, the wisdom of Athena, and yet in your face, you have no less beauty than Aphrodite herself." Enjolras' mouth was dry as Grantaire's thumb traced lower, over his lips, and the blond had never considered how sensitive than pink skin was before. He looked up at Grantaire with wide, blue eyes, and inwardly begged that Grantaire never stop touching him. "Your lips, these lips, are plump, pink, pretty, and to look upon them is to consider brushing one's own lips against them, tasting your tongue, the sure ambrosia-sweetness of your mouth, oh, I have considered many a time how it would feel to plunder those beautiful depths."

Enjolras wondered if he was dreaming, if all this was borne not of reality, but of a cruel trick of Morpheus' sand-spun tales. "Your cheeks, the rosiness to their top ends, and the smoothness of the skin here - you are as hairless as a young woman, and as arresting. And your eyes, by God, your eyes, your eyes." Grantaire did indeed look captivated, as passionate as any true man of the cloth was in prayer, as enchanted as a man looking upon the face of God.

What was the saying? To love another person is to see the face of... Oh.

"Your eyes, them and their cerulean depths, they come to me in the middle of the nights, arrest my senses, stave off sleep with a rapier edge, make me utter soft nothings to the night as I let my hand move from my side, move from where it settles below my pillow, and down lower." Grantaire's hand moved as if to illustrate, tracing down Enjolras' shirt to cup the revolutionary through his trousers, and Enjolras only now came to the awareness that he was hard, his member straining behind the cloth. "If-if-" Grantaire stuttered for the first time in his invigorating speech, stopping short. "Do you permit it?" He whispered, and Enjolras looked upon the glory of colour in those sunken eyes, such a charming, beautiful green that Enjolras' mouth went dry, his lips quivered.

Enjolras inclined his head, the movement tiny, and yet to Grantaire, it seemed to be the world.

He slid slowly, gracefully, from Enjolras' lap, dropping to the floor between his legs. He undid the fastenings, the clips and buttons, and withdrew Enjolras' cock, straining at the fabric, and he stared, his eyes wide, his lips parted, as he pulled the trousers back, letting Enjolras free. 

"By God." He whispered, and Enjolras did not think he had ever seen Grantaire look so entirely enchanted. He looked up, catching Enjolras' eyes in an intense gaze, and Enjolras couldn't help but swallow hard, Adam's Apple bobbing obviously in his throat. "Pulchritudinous." Grantaire whispered in the tiniest of voices, more to himself than to Enjolras, and then he dipped his head and put those chapped lips to the head of Enjolras' cock.

Enjolras let out a choked sound at the sudden, wet heat, and his hips bucked despite himself - Grantaire's hands, which had previously rested upon Enjolras' knees, moved up to grip his waist, tight on the jut of bone present there, to keep him from doing so again. "No." He reprimanded Enjolras in a teasing tone, with a satirical smirk on his ugly mouth. "Remain still, my friend."

And then, by God, he dipped his head and took Enjolras fully into his mouth. It was startling to witness, when Grantaire put his lips around Enjolras and dipped forwards, his cheeks hollowed as he took Enjolras to the thrice-damned  _root_ , and Enjolras let out a moan.

Grantaire's hands caught the stutter of his hips this time, pinning Enjolras firmly and effectively to his chair. He concentrated on the work, closing his eyes, and Enjolras was suddenly struck by Grantaire's unique profile in a new way. 

For a second, he convinced itself it was the other's angle, way the candle lit hit his face, but no, it wasn't that. Grantaire was devoted to this ecstatic,  _beatific_ , as he moved his mouth, and God, his tongue was hot,  _burning_ , his mouth as wet as Enjolras had ever thought, and this was not the same as the sensation of Enjolras' hand on his own member, not at all.

Grantaire, in this moment, doing this, with his lips stretched out, his cheeks hollowed, his expression intent, his eyes closed; he looked divine. Enjolras kept one hand tight on the chair beneath him, the other reaching out to comb fingers through Grantaire's hair, and it was pleasant to the touch, soft, thick, comfortable, and Grantaire released a soft noise that sent pleasurable vibrations across Enjolras' skin.

"Dear God above, you are sublime." Enjolras whispered, and Grantaire let out a  _moan_ , his eyes opening suddenly, green eyes catching Enjolras' blue ones, and Enjolras could not keep a train of thought beyond Grantaire, could not think of how inappropriate this was, about how they would discuss this after they were done, about how they had gotten to this very point: all he could consider was hot, unbelievable pleasure, and Grantaire.

Grantaire swirled his tongue cleverly around the head of Enjolras' cock before dipping his head again, and Enjolras was lost to sensation.

When he came to rational thought again, it was from the depths of a white-struck orgasm, one that had sent stars across his vision and left him gasping desperately for air, left him struggling to buck his hips despite Grantaire's cruel grasp.

The brunet pulled back, smirking, and Enjolras gazed upon him, fascinated, as he wiped a lingering drop of Enjolras' come from his lip. "What beauty there is to be found in bliss." Enjolras repeated Grantaire's earlier words, and he dropped to the ground, catching Grantaire's cheeks where the skin was covered with stubble, feeling it under his slender hands. "By God, you were- you were-" 

Grantaire stared at him, expectant, and yet he looked entirely baffled by Enjolras' peer upon his expression "Superb." He said finally, and Grantaire chuckled, and Enjolras was struck with the obscenity of their position, both of them on their knees on the wooden planks of the Musain's flaw, Enjolras with Grantaire's face in his.

"So I've been told."

"No, no, your  _face_. Boissey was right when she declared it impossible-" Grantaire recoiled slightly, blinking in surprise at the fact Enjolras had apparently heard that little anecdote. "Because it is, but it is not because it is ugly, but because it can be ugly in one moment and sublimely, spectacularly striking in the next." Enjolras whispered - and again, with the whisper, as if he could not say these words in a tone loud enough to be heard by any others, even though there were no others to catch their utterance.

"What?" Grantaire's bafflement became a mix of affront and confusion, but Enjolras silenced him by launching himself forwards, throwing Grantaire back on the ground as he captured Grantaire's lips with his own. And God, Grantaire allowed himself this sin, allowed himself to take Enjolras' mouth as he'd wanted to for too long, feeling the dexterity of the other's tongue, the plush sweetness of his lips.

When Enjolras pulled back, they stared at each other, both of them breathing hard and heavily as they stared at each other, each of them trembling, each of them flushed with heat, with blushing cheeks and fast-beating hearts. 

"I believed you, once, to be useless, incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying." Grantaire regarded him with an open mouth and widened eyes. "I believed you incapable of humanity, and certainly, certainly, incapable of beauty." And Enjolras had been taught well, educated well in not only books and language, but in civility, and he knew the proper thing to say when bested, when corrected for an offence. "I offer my apologies."

" _What_?" Grantaire asked, and he was perplexed, confused, but not only that: Grantaire looked  _stricken_ , hurt even. 

"I am sorry."

"You needn't be sorry for that, no, no, I am- I-"

"You are speechless." Enjolras commented, and Grantaire managed a nod, a nod as tiny as Enjolras' permission had been earlier. "For once in your life." And Enjolras managed a teasing smile, enough that Grantaire laughed.

"You have rendered me speechless before." Grantaire confessed, and he smiled at Enjolras. His smile was not beautiful, no, it was an ugly thing of odd angles and bad teeth. Enjolras smiled back, and then he dipped, catching Grantaire in the second kiss his chaste lips had ever witnessed. Grantaire was hot beneath him, his lips warm and dry, and Grantaire's stubble scratching at his cheeks was a surprisingly pleasant sensation. "Come home with me." Grantaire said, and the words were a plea and a promise of pleasure at once. "Please." He added, polite.

Enjolras nodded, continued to nod, and he clasped Grantaire's hand in his, interlinking their fingers. "Do your rooms smell so strongly of oil paints as you do?" He asked, in jest, but Grantaire looked worried.

"Well, I mean, they do prob-"

"A joke." Enjolras interrupted him in a soft voice, and he brought Grantaire's hand to his, kissed the knuckles as he knew was intimate; he knew it to be an action performed between new lovers, and was that not what they were to become now? "I like it."

"Oh." Grantaire said. 

"Yes." Enjolras said. The leader stood, and he pulled his drunkard with him, but Enjolras' knees were weak and he melted against Grantaire once the brunet was standing, leaving him laughing with his face buried in Enjolras' blond hair.

"Must I carry you?"

"Carry me if you will." Enjolras teased, not serious, but Grantaire lifted him all the same, putting his arm under Enjolras' thighs and lifting him easily, over his shoulder, and he moved around the room, putting out remaining candles and lamps before they left the Musain in its darkness, and travelled to Grantaire's home together.

He put Enjolras down half way down the street, leaving Enjolras laughing and falling against him, as if he too were tipsy - and Hell, perhaps he was, perhaps Enjolras had had his first taste of true intoxicant in the form of his satellite Grantaire.

Grantaire muffled Enjolras' final laugh with his own mouth as they reached his door, and for the rest of the night - and it was a long night, an impossibly long night full of pleasures Enjolras had not experienced before, not considered before, not realized existed before - the only noises to come from Enjolras' sweet lips were moans, whimpers, keens, and needy cries for more. 


End file.
